Tools of the Trade
by c20
Summary: This was a rather old story saved on my computer that I read through and edited, and thought I would resubmit. What does Monday matter when we've got all weekend?
1. Basketcase, Deadbeat, Princess

Disclaimer: I do not, nor have I ever owned more than a VHS copy of the movie, The Breakfast Club.

The car door creaked shut, and the driver pealed away without so much as a thought to the person now in the back seat. Allison and her mother drove in silence all the way home, but Allison hadn't expected much different anyway. Her mother turned off the engine and went inside, not saying a word; Allison waited a moment before venturing inside herself.

Andy. Well, it sure didn't hurt to look at him. She wasn't exactly sure what to expect out of him, but she decided she liked it better that way. Some things are just better left up to chance. Figuring she might as well go to her room to think about these things, she opened the garage door to the kitchen and squeezed inside. The back stairs in the kitchen emerged right beside the garage door, and she slinked up them quietly, unnoticed as usual.

Her room was the only room in the upstairs portion of the house, which meant she had all the privacy she wanted. Not that her parents would bother her if her room was right next to theirs either, but sometimes she told herself that they gave her that room for her benefit, to give her space. 'Well sometimes too much space isn't good for a person,' Allison mused bitterly. She collapsed on her bed and stared at the Christmas lights stapled to her ceiling. Whenever she felt so overwhelmed that she couldn't think straight, it helped to stare at the ceiling. It was vaulted, with a fan at the apex that hadn't been turned on since October, due to the nasty Chicago cold season. Her drawings covered the walls, at least the ones she deemed worthy at one point or another; the rest were safely stashed away in her journals. She looked at them now, landscapes mostly, some surreal, thinking how they would change now that she knew what having friends was like. Maybe she would start using color…She snorted in laughter at the idea, shaking her head. Her, use color! She wouldn't even know what colors to use.

Red. That's what color she would use if it ever came to using color. Red was fire, red was blood, red was birth, red was death, red was beauty, light, passion, zeal, sex…emotion. Red was a color that told everything and yet concealed everything. Without knowing it, she had cut her arm on her window ledge and she felt a warm liquid slowly making its way down her arm. It dropped on her sheet and instantly dyed the latter a deep, beautiful crimson. That settled it, she would use color in her next piece, and that color would be red.

She cleaned up her arm and put a Band-Aid over the cut, surprised about how much it _didn't _hurt. Just what would Andrew think about her having a bandage on her arm though, he would ask questions, and probably not believe the answers. That is if he spoke to her at all. She got so used to people ignoring her; she just figured Claire was right. Things would go back exactly to the way they were before Saturday, and her spontaneous red piece would be overlooked.

xxx

He sniggered to himself as he thought over his actions today. _You gonna give her the hot beef injection? No, but it's a fat girls name. Fuck you! You lost? …. Wouldn't I be amazing in that capacity?_ God, he enjoyed himself today. At the end he even got a little bonus for his efforts. All in all not a bad day, well except for bearing his feelings to total strangers, being threatened by Vernon, and the eight extra Saturdays he had earned for just being his charming self.

He walked through his back yard and up the back steps, slamming the screen door behind him. His house was dingy, but not unlivable, at least not by normal standards. The only things that really gave it its 'unpleasant' atmosphere were his parents, and the constant lack of a central heating unit. Most of the time he didn't stay there anyway, so neither bothered him much. His parents were only a problem if he was at home for extended periods of time, and he wore enough layers to stay warm even in the coldest of winters.

John's room was very obviously identifiable by the door, which held such catchy slogans as 'Stay the fuck out', and ' Come in and you're dead', but all that was inside was a mattress on the floor and a few girly posters on the wall. His attention was quickly drawn to the window as he heard a rapid knocking on the sill from the outside. Peaking through dirty blinds, he saw a girl with dark makeup and very dark hair banging on the window while trying to see inside.

"Jesus, slim you scared the shit outa me."

"Sorry Bend man, it's just my brother caught me an' Mikey uh… indisposed again. He looks like he's out for blood this time man."

"No prob, Slim. Hey, where were you an' Mikey that he caught you guys anyways?"

"I dunno what I was fuckin' thinkin' man. We was up at the plant. You know how those machines turn me on."

She smiled and sat down on John's mattress, pulling a beer from her bag. John leaned back against the wall and lit up a cig before leaning his head back and letting out a smoky sigh. Slim was his first. She was two years older than him, but had always acted like the little sister of every guy in the group, except him. He remembered her saying that she wanted to teach him how to do it right, not like a lot of the other guys or 'boys' she had been with, as she called them. They hooked up every once in a while now, when they were both drunk and looking for an easy time, but mostly they were friends. If she wasn't with John, she was always with her on again off again boyfriend, Mikey, and old friend of her older brother's. They were always getting caught by her very protective brother or one of his equally protective friends, mainly cause every guy in the neighborhood watched out for her as their 'lil sis Slim', and any guy who dared come near her had to bear the consequences. Most learned the hard way, but luckily for John there were no feelings attached to their random hookups, and therefore the guys never gave him a hard time.

He still didn't know what to do about the Claire situation. Would he try to diminish his 'considerations' to just her, or would she not expect that of him? Exactly how much trouble would this cause for him, for both of them? Would she even consider them as 'together', or would she just keep up her teasing ways with every guy in the school? Would he be cool with that if she did? Too many questions, and not enough answers. Not yet.

xxx

"Hi, honey, who was that?"

"Who, daddy?"

"That boy I saw you with just before you got in the car."

"Oh, him. Well, his name's John. He's a friend."

"Oh, okay then sweetie."

She could tell he was unnerved; he had arrived just as she kissed John goodbye. Still, she couldn't help but smile to herself…Short, but sweet, just the way she liked it. He was a dick, but that made him irresistibly sexy in a way. She remembered what he had said, _'Wouldn't I be outstanding in that capacity?' _Yes, he would do _just_ fine. Claire knew he could probably care less about exclusivity, but that meant he wouldn't care too much if she still had her own fun, right? Actually, to think about it, he probably would care, because his guy brain would label her as his. Oh she could see it now, him beating some guy up for looking at her. Come to think of it, that wouldn't be too bad. Maybe she really was a tease, but at least once, she wasn't all talk; she didn't go in that closet to make John _think_ about her.

Chiding herself for being so superficial, Claire got out of the car after her father turned off the engine. Without a word, she went inside and into her room. Once she arrived, she evaluated her surroundings… spacious, coordinated, stylish, and completely her. She liked it the way it was, clean and neat, with plenty of closet and drawer space. Maybe she was a bit on the shallow side, but she liked things the way she liked them, and no one would tell her otherwise. Speaking of which, she hadn't decided whether or not she would go to Stubby's tonight. If it was a big party as Andy said, she would want to go for the free beer and to see her friends; still, she wasn't quite sure she wanted to risk getting in trouble, not to mention not wanting to see her friends right now. Who gave a shit what they thought anyways. All of a sudden, a memory popped into her head. One of John's friends had sold her an eighth of pot once, and she still had his number… She decided she would get dressed and see what happened, maybe she would go to the party, maybe she would go and leave, or maybe she would just go out. It all depended on what happened and when.


	2. Jock, Princess

Disclaimer: I do not own The Breakfast Club, nor have I made any money from the writing of this story.

AN: Sorry about this seemingly eternal wait for an update, but after writing the first chapter, graduating high school, and now almost graduating college, I got distracted and didn't feel like writing again. Until now. I hope you all enjoy!

xxx

Andy's dad was grinning as he hopped in cab of the Bronco. After so many years of being accused of being a 'faggot', the youngest Clark son was finally getting his act together and banging something female. As they pulled away from the curve, Clark Sr. turned to his son smiling lecherously.

"So, Andy my boy, who was that hot little number?"

"Aw come off it Dad, she's just this girl. Nothing serious, you know."

"I don't know, she looked like a sweet thing, but you know those are always the feistiest in the sack!"

Seeing his son redden considerably and snap his jaws closed was more than enough reward for the big man. He could remember being this age, being thin and muscular, able to get with any girl he chose at the drop of a hat, fucking around with his buddies after games on Friday nights, getting drunk and playing pranks on the geeks who thought they knew shit…

For the longest time he thought his son must have some sort of deficiency, as he was sort of quiet and kept to himself, had never brought a girl around, and hadn't gotten into any trouble since the start of high school. True, he wrestled and competed well, honing his body and raising his levels of testosterone, but he just didn't seem to have the same interests in getting laid and trashed. Now, he had hope in his son once again, but if he didn't see some results in the next wrestling meet, there would be hell to pay for little Andy.

xxx

_Longest fucking ride of my life._ _I swear to God, one more word out of that nasty motherfucker's mouth about Allison's ass, and I'm gonna lose it! _

Andy grumbled incoherently to himself as he threw his backpack on the computer chair in his room. The whitewashed walls, twin bed, and scant posters of NFL players felt sparse, but looking at the floor strewn with gym shorts, tennis shoes, and dirty underwear, Andy felt at home. He sat down on the bed for a moment, wondering if he should take a nap or go for a jog to clear his head.

Deciding on the latter, he pulled on some sweatpants to combat the late-March chill and laced his sneakers, starting to stretch before bouncing his way down the stairs and out the front door. He could hear his father settling into his favorite recliner in front of a loud T.V. in the living room, no doubt swilling his beer and regaling his fragile wife with stories of their youngest son's new sexual conquest. Pushing the old man from his thoughts, Andy jogged slowly to the end of the street, preparing for a burst in speed that would boost his adrenaline and hopefully relieve some stress.

Unwillingly, his thoughts also turned to Allison. He knew that they had connected somewhat, but didn't know what to expect from now on. Would they get together? Would he be able to reconcile himself with the fact that she may be ridiculed from the moment people finally noticed her until they decided she was old news? Hell, he wasn't even sure if he wanted a girlfriend right now, and although it was unfair of him to assume she wanted a relationship just because she was female, he couldn't help the automatic slight repulsion he felt at the thought.

Allison seemed to be the ultimate unknown. He had no idea what she did with her time, other than decide she was bored enough to sit through detention on an otherwise perfectly good Saturday. She seemed to like to create things, draw and shit like that, but he just didn't feel like he could see an average 'Allison day' in his mind's eye. Did she like to go out? Did she exercise? Would she even know what to do in any sort of social situation they might go to together? Fuck! Maybe he was just thinking too much on this.

She hadn't even expressed any interest in being with him in any real sense, so why sweat it? If anything, she was attracted to him, he was attracted to her, and with a combination of deadly teenage hormones between the two of them, maybe his old man's words would come true. Then again, maybe not.

xxx

Claire slowly pulled the razor up her pale legs, rinsing the hair and shaving cream off under the faucet after every pass. After ridding herself of the unsightly body hair, she went about drying and styling her short red hair, smiling at her reflection as she did so. Keeping the single diamond stud in her ear, she placed a thin silver chain with a small, heart-shaped pendant around her neck and carefully applied light makeup to her eyes, cheeks, and lips.

Perfect. Now to decide where she was going to exercise the fabulous looks she was blessed with on a Saturday night. She supposed she had a few options, each having to do with teasing horny boys, getting tipsy, and chatting with her equally beautiful friends while listening to the latest popular music. Too bad she didn't really want to go to any of these places…well, not without the promise of possibly running into that guy, John's friend, that she bought the pot from. Maybe he could hook her up with a better deal now that she new John, maybe not. No one would believe John would waste his time on a goody-two-tease like her.

Ah well. Stubby's it is then. At least she could get buzzed and escape her Daddy's nervous glances and her Mom's mindless droning. God knows her brother didn't have to put up with this shit. He got out before it got really bad, but she didn't blame him for not wanting to come around anymore. His apartment on the Chicago waterfront was a godsend from time to time when she wanted to get away, but she knew living with him was never an option. That would be tantamount to a permanent cockblock for her bachelor sibling, who was young, male, virile, and used his money and talents to acquaint himself with the majority of Chicago's young female population. If anything, though, his friends were always older and cute and thought she was hot, fresh meat. Getting complemented and having things bought for her by handsome older guys was nothing to complain about.

Picking up the phone next to her bed, Claire dialed Stubby to ask about the party and see when she should show up.


	3. Moving forward, holding back

Disclaimer: I do not own The Breakfast Club.

AN: I think I may only get inspired to update about once every three weeks or so, but don't be surprised if I just happen to submit before or after that very flexible schedule. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy the latest chapter!

xxx

Empty beer bottles clanked together on the floor next to John's mattress as the two friends exchanged amicable barbs, teasing each other about embarrassing things they'd both done while high or drunk back in the day. Feeling a slight buzz after his sixth beer, John turned to face Slim with a slightly more serious look on his face, quietly examining her dark hair and the fine features she attempted to bury beneath what appeared to be pounds of heavy, black makeup. Still chuckling, Slim noticed John's scrutiny and cocked a brow, wondering if he was horny, drunk, or both.

"Why the third degree, Bend man?"

Bender slowly blinked his eyes, shaking his head as he grunted a muted laugh.

"Aw, I dunno. I guess I was just thinkin' 'bout why you always wear so much damn makeup on your face. I always thought you looked better without it."

Nonchalantly shrugging, John bent down to grab another cigarette out of the pack on his floor, missing the slightly shocked look that passed over Slim's face before her eyes darkened in irritation.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, huh? You trade in your dick for a hole between your legs recently or somethin'?"

"Fuck, I didn't mean much by it, don't get pissed. I just thought it's been a while since I last saw you without so much shit on your face…"

John slowly trailed off as he remembered exactly _what_ had been happening when he saw her tan face free of the layers of black it sported now. Obviously Slim started remembering the incident as well, because she softly choked on her beer and had the grace to let her cheeks pink a bit in the dimness of the dingy bedroom.

"That was a long time ago, man."

He started at the sound of her voice before looking back to see that her face had changed from somewhat embarrassed to soft and a little sad. She looked up at him through the dark fringes of her hair, quietly muttering, "Lo que importa en la vida no es lo que te sucede, sino lo que recuerda y cómo lo recuerde."*

As his brain registered the statement, Bender found himself scooting closer to her, slinging an arm around her shoulders in the only show of solidarity and understanding he could offer. He knew what she was trying to say, and hoped that she wouldn't think less of him because he had no verbal response to ease the sudden tension that he created within the situation.

Shrugging John's arm off her shoulders, Slim smiled a subdued smile and grabbed another beer, determined to think different thoughts and let her night progress smoothly until she heard either from or about Mikey after their unpleasant run in with her brother. A loud thump from the hallway brought them both out of the stupor that had set in, and the sudden yelling from the other male occupant of the house told the two of them it was time to pack up before the shit hit the fan.

Bender and Slim left the empty bottles on the floor and the makeshift ashtray full of butts, grabbing their unfinished beers and swinging clumsily over the windowsill one at a time before walking through the tiny backyard, hopping over the low chain-link fence, and strolling to the dead-ended street where Slim usually parked her beat-up shit wagon when she came to his house. With their former chill spot abandoned, they crawled into the 1965 Oldsmobile Cutlass through the back window, as the doors refused to open in any temperature below thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Safely out of danger, the two silently thought about where they could take their little Saturday night party of two, all former awkwardness forgotten in the urgency of the moment.

"So Slim, know about any good shit goin' down tonight? I know Joey said his house is off limits since the cops busted a party there a couple weeks ago and found his grow station in the basement. I can't believe the stupid shit actually let the cops in his fucking house!"

"Yea, what an asshole. That loco motherfucker coulda been fuckin' made with all that indoors shit! Especially with all the richies in this town lookin' to score a good high without knowin' how much it's worth! Joey kept some though, you know, to sell and shit while he gets his shit back together. Hell, I'm surprised the cops didn't throw his ass in jail, but he did say somethin' about goin' up to the richies neighborhood for some party or somethin' to get ridda some of the shit."

"Sounds cool, what better way to spend a Saturday than hangin' around some rich asshole's house tryin' to score way too expensive pussy while drinkin' premium liquor on someone else's tab?"

John asked this sarcastically before pondering a minute, finally coming to the conclusion that he had no better places to be at the moment and wanted nothing more than finding a way to turn his fledgling buzz into a full-blown drunk. Slim seemed to be in a similar state of mind, and was probably thinking that she could use a way to get her mind off the very real possibility that her brother was currently beating the shit out of Mikey. He had really snapped after that shit at the factory today, and there was no telling how long it might take for the testosterone-overloaded working-man to calm down, especially if it had anything to do with his sister.

"Fuck it, let's just go."

John made the decision for them, jumping into the driver's seat and putting the old piece of shit in drive, all the while ignoring Slim's half-hearted complaints about being allowed to drive her own 'baby.'

xxx

Paint squished beneath the bristles of her paintbrush as she dragged it smoothly across the canvas, flowing in a glistening scarlet arc before ending abruptly as the artist changed her mind. Still an amorphous collection of strokes, dabs, and smudges, Allison's 'red piece' came together without pattern or form, emerging with a lack of cohesiveness that promised confusion for any onlooker until the final product presented itself. Sticking her tongue between her teeth as she cocked her head to the side, Allison eyed her project skeptically, playing Cure lyrics in her head as the background to her inquisition of the immobile object in front of her.

This painting, like any other piece she put together, had little likelihood of ever being seen by anyone but herself, but she couldn't half-ass it all the same. Deciding to let the painting dry for a bit and allow herself a break in which to become re-inspired, Allison stood, swinging her neck from side to side and delighting in the satisfying 'pop' her vertebrae emitted. Picking up her walkman and placing its giant, padded earphones over her ears, she prepared to leave the room for a walk down the street, but paused as she passed her mirror.

Dark brown eyes blinked as she took in her altered appearance, the look bestowed upon her by Claire that afternoon. She had been too preoccupied planning her painting to wash the makeup off and return to her frumpy self, and she found herself wondering if she should do so now. It probably didn't matter, but she sure didn't want to work hard to impress people she wasn't sure she'd ever speak to again. Not much of a dilemma, really.

Setting down her walkman, she stepped lightly into the bathroom, leaving the light off while turning on the faucet. She brought a washcloth dipped in hot water to her face, gently buffing the area around her eyes in a quest to rid herself of the light brown eye liner Claire painstakingly spread there earlier. Looking up, she was satisfied to see a clear face in the darkened reflection of the bathroom mirror, and reached up and pulled the headband off as well, letting her unruly hair fall down around her ears again. She still felt different, however, as though the makeover and her removal of it left her with a new, blank slate rather than necessitating a return to her former, shabby state. Breathing a somewhat confused, almost contented sigh, Allison went back into her room, opting to change into a pair of loose jeans and a sweatshirt before grabbing her walkman and resuming the trek down the stairs and outside.

The distant peal of a saxophone sounded in her ears, reminding her that she had left her favorite John Coltrane tape in the walkman she now tucked into the large pocket of her overly large man's jeans. Smiling slightly to herself, she not-so-quietly hummed along, unafraid of embarrassing herself to any possible passersby on her evening stroll down the street in this unassuming middle-class suburb. Her eyes looked from yellow-bulbed lampposts, to manicured lawns, into living room windows, and down the street to the bare trees of the park she walked towards. Chilly breezes buffeted her face and hands, so she ducked her head a bit and tucked her now cold hands into her pockets, still humming along to the jazz sliding through the headphones into her ears. By the time she reached the park, her body had warmed a bit, and the clearness of the night encouraged her brain to beat with more creative thoughts.

No one else would have ventured into the park at night, especially the pampered inhabitants of her neighborhood, who still believed in boogeymen that went bump in the night, although nowadays they called them 'thugs' and 'deadbeats.'

Sitting in a swing used by children during the day, Allison relished in the wind that was now cooling the gathering sweat on her forehead and pulling her thick brown locks away from her face. She pushed back slowly, allowing her momentum to carry her back forward as her head fell back to observe the twinkling of the night sky. Never one to make any plans for a weekend night, she barely noticed the fact that she was alone at a time when many others her age scrambled to find other miserable people to bathe their sorrows in alcohol with, instead enjoying her peaceful night and time to reflect.

After about an hour had passed, Allison left her stargazing and swinging with a renewed creative vigor. Savoring the final notes of "Up 'Gainst the Wall" as she re-ascended the kitchen steps, Allison remixed some paint on her palette, washed her brushes in mineral spirits, sat down in front of her painting, and got back to work.

xxx

AN: Just so you know, I do not endorse anyone driving after they drink. Also, teenagers have dirty mouths, so I'm sorry if the cursing offends you. The album Allison is listening to is _Coltrane_, released in 1962 with John Coltrane on saxophone, McCoy Tyner on piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass, and Elvin Jones on drums. I personally like all types of music, and I could see Allison liking just about anything that fit her quirky mood at the time.

* "What matters in life is not what happens to you, but what you remember and how you remember it."- Gabriel García Márquez from _One Hundred Years of Solitude_


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